


All I Want For Christmas Is You

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Captivity, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Sensory Deprivation, This is not Happy, and not christmassy, at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The demon watches the man sag further into the floor, body despairing, face entirely impassive. Bill hums the line of a carol as he shuts the door. “Merry Christmas, Pine Tree.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want For Christmas Is You

He can’t see. He can’t move. He can’t hear - likely because there is nothing to hear, save for his own miserable and minute whimpers that echo in the main chamber. 

He can definitely feel, though. He can feel the collar chafing unpleasantly at his neck, just a touch too tight for comfort. He can feel the blindfold shift and rub against the skin around his eyes and the heavy knot at the nape of his skull. He can feel the bonds around his arms and legs, cool metal against feverish limbs, holding him in place so that his only option is to weep silently and pray for his captor to relinquish their obsessive immaterial grip.

Or, alternatively, to provide some company. The stretches of time where he is alone drive the man insane - the phrase ‘gnashing teeth’ seemed bizarre and hyperbolic until now, when frantic movement and the painful wear of his bonds are all that remind him that he is alive, and prevent his mind from snapping.

The door creaks open; footsteps echo along the chilled floor and he leans towards them, hopeful.

They shift in his direction until their owner is stood directly in front of the bound man, a gentle chuckle permeating the air. A hand brushes through brown curls and the man almost topples over in his efforts to push into the sensation, gasping in relief. The owner of the hand laughs delightedly.

“Oh, Pine Tree, you missed me that much? I’m touched.”

Dipper does not respond, knowing too well that Bill doesn’t like being spoken to unless he has directly demanded it. Instead he simply cries quietly and shifts into a more appropriate kneeling position (an act of deference that is always appreciated), ducking his head down.

“So _sweet_ of you to submit to me, little tree,” Bill purrs, tracing a finger down Dipper’s jaw and tilting his head up. Even without his sight, Dipper knows the smirk that graces the demon’s features.

How long has he been here? Weeks? Months? A year? It feels like an eternity, and for all the man knows it could have been. It’s entirely believable that the demon could be able to screw with his perception of time as well as everything else, as well as holding him here, alone, for some bizarre sadistic sense of enjoyment that only Bill Cipher could find fulfilling. 

“Do you know what day it is today, Pine Tree?”

Dipper doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, and that fact rankles more than he would like to admit. Bill’s trying to frustrate him and it’s working. Even if the demon tells him, any meaning to it will fade away in the slipstream of immeasurable time. It tears into his heart. No outward emotions show, though, other than the constant expression of misery that the demon absolutely adores.

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year, sapling.” Bill’s voice is low, and his breath hot on the man’s ear as he dips down to talk. “It’s what you fleshbags call ‘Christmas’. I thought you’d want to know. You enjoy Christmas, don’t you? Answer me.”

“Yes.” Dipper keeps his reply monosyllabic, although there’s hundreds of separate feelings associated with winter, with this time of year. Warmth. Snow. Friends. Family. Singing together, eating together, opening gifts together, together, just having other people there and being able to spend time with those he loves - and dammit, he’s crying again. The material of the blindfold is damp and uncomfortable. He’d trade the feeling of material forever, if he could have just an hour of company. Maybe half an hour, even. Just not these teasing moments in between chasms of time.

“You spent it with Shooting Star last year, didn’t you? I’m sure it was fun. Giving gifts, and whatnot.”

Unwilling to rise to the bait and become angry (because Mabel is gone, and there’s no point trying to deny it or break himself) he feels the demon pull him into a warm lap and fiddle with his hands, toying easily with the restraints that have worn painful burns into his wrists and ankles over the past months. It’s intoxicating, and addictive, and soothing.

“Sitting by the tree, praying to your - Santa, or whatever. Talking about that nonexistent saviour of the world? It cracks me up, Pine Tree! Giving each other meaningless gifts… I’m almost upset that you didn’t get me anything.”

Bill’s hold becomes crushing, but the man attempts to enjoy it, knowing that he may not get to be in the presence of another living being for a very long time. Dipper manages to sigh contentedly at the shared body heat and nuzzles his head against Bill’s chin. The demon seems amused by this. Gentle lips press a kiss to Dipper’s ear, ghosting over his cheekbones and releasing one nigh-inaudible, sardonic chuckle.

“It’s okay, sapling. I have everything I want right here.”

A singular, chaste touch presses against Dipper’s lips, any feeling immediately gone as Bill lifts himself up and drops the man unceremoniously onto the floor. The shoes begin to walk away. Dipper lies on the cold concrete, motionless, faintly disbelieving. His chains rattle gently as they scrape along the smooth surface. A muted whimper escapes Dipper despite himself, and Bill pauses in the doorway, looking back at his Pine Tree with an unyielding stare of triumph.

“Oh, Pine Tree,” he croons. “Don’t you just look perfect, trussed up like that?”

Dipper’s hyperventilating - a sharp pang of desperation is stabbing at his gut as his pleads slip out, unbidden. “Please,” he begs. “Please, please, don’t go, _please_.” He reaches out, voice reaching a crescendo. “Please, God, please, don’t leave me again. Bill. _Bill_.”

There is no sound of movement, only a mocking snicker. “You’re a delight, kid. Really. But I have places to be, demons to see! Favourite or not, I can’t just up and abandon my duties for you.” The demon watches the man sag further into the floor, body despairing, face entirely impassive. Bill hums the line of a carol as he shuts the door. “Merry Christmas, Pine Tree.”

Once more, Dipper is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know. I just don't know.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDACj0tkD-s


End file.
